


All I Have Left of You

by zayngasm



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Heartbreak, Implied Sexual Content, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:12:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zayngasm/pseuds/zayngasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because this is what they do. They fight and argue and yell and Louis tells him <em>I love her</em> and Harry knows it, but in the end they always end up back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Have Left of You

He's standing next to the coffee table. It's littered with half-empty beer bottles and shot glasses. Ridiculous, neon-colored streamers cover the hardwood floor and a deflated balloon - equally as neon as the streamers - has made it's way across the room since the open door brought in a fresh wave of cold air.

He doesn't look up, but Harry knows he heard the door open, knows that it's Harry standing there. There's no mistaking the tightness in his shoulders.

“I thought you forgot,” he finally says.

His voice is quiet. He doesn't sound angry but that doesn't mean he's not. (He _would_ be angry.) He doesn't sound drunk and he doesn't sound surprised, but that doesn't mean much either.

“Of course not,” Harry finally answers. His voice sounds faint and distance. He doesn't recognize it himself. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

He doesn't move from where he's standing, doesn't close the door, doesn't take his eyes off of the other boy's back. He waits.

It takes a few minutes, but Louis does eventually sigh, nodding. The tightness doesn't drain out of his body.

“Come in, then. Don't wanna let all the warm air out.”

Harry lets out the breath he's been holding in since he got on the plane however many hours ago and nods even though Louis can't see him. He turns and shuts the door.

When he's turned back around, Louis is facing him.

It hits him like a punch to the stomach because _fuck_ , he still looks beautiful. So heart-achingly beautiful that, for a moment, Harry can't remember why he left in the first place, can't remember why he does this to them _over and over and over_ again.

He looks a little older. Closer to twenty-three like he now is. There's stubble on his chin, like maybe he was too lazy to shave or maybe he keeps it cause it makes him look more his age. Harry doesn't know, can't ask, it shouldn't really matter anyways but it hurts that there are things about Louis that he doesn't know. Hurts even more to think that there might be someone out there now who knows Louis better than Harry knows Louis. Wonders if that person is the same person that caused this whole mess to begin with.

He tries not to think of Her though and all the reasons why he left in the first place, why he always leaves. Why he hasn't spoken to Louis or any of the boys in . . . God, he doesn't even know. He has lost track of time. If someone knows Louis better than Harry knows Louis than that's all on him, it's all his damn own fault.

“Where were you this time?”

Harry frowns. “Erm . . . m'not sure. Toronto? I think?” He shrugs, looks away. He can see the kitchen from where he's standing; there's new pictures on the fridge, pictures he doesn't recognize . . . people he doesn't recognize. His stomach twists. “Doesn't matter, does it?” He doesn't know if he's talking about the pictures or his location or both.

Either way, it's not the right answer.

“Uh, yeah, kinda. What if something happened? How're we suppose to get a hold of you?”

He looks up quickly, his frown deepening. He doesn't want to fight. This isn't what he wanted. His words are quick, rushed, trying to explain. “I have my cell-”

“That you turn on every, what, couple weeks?”

Louis is crossing his arms over his chest now, but it doesn't make him look agitated or annoyed, it just makes him look little. Harry wants to wrap his arms around him, apologize, protect him from the cruelty the world has thrust upon them, steal Louis away so he can keep him for himself.

“I'm sorry." He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Can we, can we not do this right now? I have something for you.” He opens his eyes, trying for hopeful. He should know better.

“I don't want your presents, Harry. You've been gone six months.”

Has it really been that long?

“I had to – you know I can't -”

“I love her.”

No matter how many times he hears the words, it's still like a knife to his chest, and he winces. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, fights the urge to put a hand to his chest to make sure his heart is still intact.

“I know, I know. You love her, not me. I get it. You don't . . . you don't have to tell me. That's not why I'm here.”

When he opens his eyes, Louis is frowning. “That's not what -”

Harry shakes his head. He doesn't want to hear it. He can't hear it. It's too much. Always too much.

“I just – I wanted to come back and say 'Happy Birthday' okay, so. No fighting, for once, alright? Please?”

Louis uncrosses his arms then crosses them again and finally nods. “Yeah, alright.”

Harry sighs, relieved. There's still a stone in his chest. But there's always a stone in his chest. Ever since the first time Louis had told him _I love her_ there's been a fucking _boulder_ inside of him. A hole in his heart. A pain in his stomach. He's just broken. He's already mentally counting down the minutes till he can disappear again. Get away from everything that's killing him.

“What did you get me?”

He snaps out of his thoughts and glances at Louis, who at least looks mildly curious, glancing down at Harry's duffel bag. Harry pretty much lives out it, his entire life tucked away in one suitcase. He leans down to unzip it, smiles a little when he finds what he's looking for. “It's not much, but.” He pulls out the worn, slightly ratty book, and hands it over.

Louis stares down at it for a moment before taking it. “This is my favorite book.”

Harry wants to laugh, say _yeah i know_ , but he just nods, rubs at the back of his neck nervously. “Open it.”

When Louis does, his eyes widen further. “It's signed? Where did you get this?”

He chuckles a little, humorlessly. “Don't ask.”

Shaking his head, Louis looks from Harry, down to the book, and back again. “Oh my God.” He almost sounds angry.

Harry just shrugs. “No big deal.”

It's silent for a couple minutes then during which Harry finds himself unable to look away from Louis. Trying to make up for lost time, he tells himself. It's been six months since he's so much as looked at the boy. He's fled to places that don't broadcast news about the band and things like _the sudden tour hiatus has still been left unexplained_ and _when the tour will be back on, no one knows_ and more importantly _rumors spread that Harry Styles hasn't been heard from or spotted since the last show_. _What happened what happened what happened_ everyone wants to know. No one is saying anything, though. Management claimed One Direction needs some 'personal time' but no one believes that. And Harry feels selfish, he knows he's being selfish. Because he's putting the band at risk. Putting everything they worked for at risk.

“You could go on tour without me,” he says suddenly. He doesn't mean for it to come out, but it's something he's thought about a lot. He both loathes and craves it; maybe if they went back on tour he could finally move on, but at the same time . . . he can't imagine them performing without him.

He doesn't know what he expects Louis' reaction to be, but the hand slapping across his cheek definitely isn't it.

“Or not.” He rubs at the spot.

Louis is in front of him, an inch away from his face when Harry looks down. “How dare you even suggest that.”

“I just thought, y'know, the fans are getting anxious, angry. That's a lot of money down the drain.”

“Then maybe you should stop running away.”

He wants to snap _then maybe you should stop breaking my heart_ but he stopped snapping at Louis a long time ago. There's no point, and it just leaves him drained.

“You know I can't do that.”

Louis groans, his hands clenching into fists at his side. He turns away from Harry and starts pacing. “You are so damn difficult.” And really he has nothing to say to that. He knows he's being difficult, but what else is there to do? Louis' back is still to him, but his hands are in his hair now, pulling just slightly. “Sometimes I could just -” He groans again, muffles out a curse.

“That's my cue to leave.”

Louis drops his hands instantly. There's a moment of silence before he asks, “Where're you headed this time?”

Harry shrugs before he realizes Louis can't actually see him. “Dunno. Maybe I'll send you a postcard.” He usually heads to the airport, picks the most deserted sounding place, and hands over his card. That's how things work these days.

The older boy spins around then, and Harry takes a step back, surprised by the intensity in his eyes. “A postcard? That's all I deserve?”

 _Didn't think you cared_ , he thinks about saying. Or, _What else would you want? You deserve everything. You can have everything you want. You already_ have everything; _what else do I have to give you?_

He doesn't say anything. He's past that point. When things first started slipping down the drain he fought and argued and yelled and pleaded, practically got down on his knees for Louis, asking him - no _begging_ him - not to do this, not to leave them. But Louis made his choice and that's that.

“Fine. Just leave.”

Harry nods. That's probably best. The words are silent, but they hang in the air anyways. He zips up his duffel bag again and turns towards the door.

“And you know what?" A pause, Louis lets out a breath. "Don't come back.”

He freezes with his hand on the doorknob, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and nods. _Okay, okay, okay. Whatever you want._

He's not going to cry. He stopped crying after that first month. Those were the days when he stayed in hotel rooms and didn't get out of bed. When he thought he was literally dying because his heart had just been ripped out of his chest. When he literally wondered what he was going to do with his life. Because everything had been _louislouislouis_ everything still was, is and always will be _louislouislouis_ and he'll never learn to live with it – that's not what he's doing now, he's not living – but he's dealing. And he supposes that's good enough.

And he knows it's beyond pathetic, the way he runs and hides and ignores the world, but if he had to sit around and watch Louis be with Her, knowing he hadn't been good enough, that Louis had chosen Her over him . . . well Harry doesn't know what he'd do, but it would probably be less healthy than what he's doing now. Hiding is safe.

A tear still slides down his cheek anyway, because no matter how much he tries, he's always hoped one of these times would be different.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers into the door, the words barely audible.

He turns the knob.

“Harry.”

He freezes again, but when Louis doesn't say anything more, he turns slightly.

And Louis is right there. And he looks just as broken as Harry feels, if that's even possible. Like everything has just left his body and he's just as tired of fighting as Harry is.

They stand there for a few minutes, just staring, just breathing each others air.

"I wish . . . You know I don't . . . This isn't what I wanted."

And then Louis presses him against the door, leans up on the tips of his toes, and kisses him.

Harry wants to devour it and keep it and never let it go, but he pushes Louis back and shakes his head because this will literally kill him.

“Don't.”

“Harry, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” he repeats. “Harry. _Hazza_ ,” and his voice breaks on the last syllable. And Harry's never been strong, always been the weak one. So he does the only thing he can thing to do; he steps forward, removes what little space there is between them, and they're kissing again.

Because this is what they do. They fight and argue and yell and Louis tells him _I love her_ and Harry knows it, but in the end they always end up back together. Two halves of the same whole, Harry once said, and Louis had rolled his eyes and said he sounded like a lovestruck teenager. He was, though. Still is.

But when She started coming around more (and more and more), Harry couldn't handle it and this started happening less (and less and less) until it wasn't happening at all. And then Louis made his choice and Harry did the only thing he could do. He ran.

They reach for each other at the same time; Louis' hands tangle into Harry's hair – _always_ , his hands belong in Harry's hair – and Harry's fingers trail down Louis' back, grip his thighs, lift him up till his legs are wrapping around Harry's waist. And he's walking, doesn't even know where he's going, and he thinks _bedroom_ \- must say it, because Louis groans _fuck, yes, please_. But it's so far away, and Louis's biting down on Harry's neck, so he things screw it, and heads for the couch. There's a mess of trash and empty cups they have to push out of the way, but then Louis is finally under him, all warm and eager. He doesn't think, just does; clothes are being pulled off and then he's pressing his fingers and lips to every inch of bare skin he can reach, biting and scratching and sucking and marking and claiming.

He might regret this. This might break him. Might be the last straw. But if he's going down, he might as well have this one last moment.

When both of their pants have been shoved to the floor and he's biting down on the inside of Louis' neck, he slips his fingers in, making Louis pant out his name, not Hers. He wants to keep it forever, the sound of his name on the older boy's lips. Wishes he could be smug about it, show Her, say that maybe Louis was his, even for a moment. And then the blue eyed boy meets his gaze and says, as if he can read his mind, “I miss you, miss you so much. Never wanted her, not like you. Always want you." And Harry just nods, hides his face in Louis' neck, fumbles with the condom until he can slide inside, till everything makes sense again.

 

A couple hours later, with light streaming in through the big bay windows of the flat and Louis asleep across his chest, Harry gets up. He's careful not to move Louis too much, doesn't want to wake him. When he's dressed and his duffel bag is back over his shoulder, he presses his lips, momentarily, to Louis' forehead.

He waits, thinking Louis might stir, might open his eyes, sensing the goodbye and Harry's departure. Maybe he'll grip on to his shirt, plead for him to _stay, don't go, don't leave me, I love you_. And Harry will crawl back on the couch with him because they're too lazy to move to the bedroom, and Louis will make promises and keep them this time.

But none of that happens. Louis doesn't move and the only sound in the flat is the click of the door shutting behind Harry as he leaves.


End file.
